


Deliverance

by Actual_Pixie



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Altus Fenris, Biblical References, Chosen One, Danarius is gross, Fenris has a drastically different upbringing, Fenris was never a slave, M/M, Nobility, Prophecy, Rating May Change, Slavery, Tags May Change, Tevinter, Tevinter Imperium, minor Dorian/Fenris, probably butchering the elvish language, young Fenris
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-10 09:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3285974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Actual_Pixie/pseuds/Actual_Pixie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The prophecy stated, “the white nothing will change everything; from his beginning, Tevinter’s end.” And so it came to be that every newborn elvhen son was ripped from his mother’s arms and brutally slain, sacrificed for the greater good of the Imperium.</p><p>All but one, who found quite a different fate under the protection of a powerful magister.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So very recently I discovered the wonder that is Dragon Age and have fallen hard and fast for many of the characters - most specifically, Fenris. I couldn't not contribute something to this glorious fandom, and since I have no artistic talent to speak of I figured I may as well try fanfiction.
> 
> This idea came to me when the Prince of Egypt soundtrack randomly came on my iPod. It's pretty much one of the best musical movie soundtracks ever, imo. Hans Zimmer is a god. Anyways it made me wonder what the magister-loathing Fenris might be like if he'd somehow been raised as Denarius's son rather than his slave. 
> 
> I have a general outline of how I'd like the story to go, and it will loosely follow the Prince of Egypt (or, y'know, Moses) storyline while incorporating Dragon Age lore and characters. Which I hopefully don't screw up to bad (feel free to point it out when I do, because I'm sure I'll make mistakes and I'd like this story to be as good as I can make it). 
> 
> While I'm not sure quite how long the story will be, I am aiming for three parts. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Comments and/or constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated.

Across the Tevinter Imperium, the heavy stench of blood pervaded the air.

There’d been not a warning, not a single sign of the nightmare that descended upon them that night. For as long as they’d been a race the elves had looked to the sky for guidance, studied the land around them and listened to whispers on the wind for signals of events to come.

But the elves of Tevinter were so far removed from their roots, their own culture forbidden to them by the masters who held their chains, and perhaps this was why their gods no longer spoke to them, why after so long they were still ground under the heel of the humans until their hopes of change and dreams of salvation and very will to survive turned to dust. 

Perhaps that was why, on a clear autumn evening no more inauspicious than any other, Imperial guards stormed the elvhen slums with their swords and whips to carry out the latest whim of the magisters who ruled the land.

It was not enough the elves were slaves; not enough their only worth measured in how they pleased the humans who owned them. It was not even enough that every day through their labor they sacrificed blood, sweat, and tears for the mere chance of surviving another few hours. Now the magisters wanted the only small happiness to be found in such a life. For it was decreed, on this clear autumn night no more inauspicious than any other, that every newborn elvhen son was to be given over willingly to the Magisterium.

There was resistance. Of course there was resistance. When a person had nothing left to lose, they were willing to give up anything if it meant their loved ones might be spared. A mother or father’s life seemed an insignificant price to pay in exchange for the wellbeing of their child.

Cries for death, pleas for mercy. Screams of the fallen mixed with the wails of babes torn from their mothers’ breasts, but through the heinous cacophony it was the soft coo from the ragged bundle in her arms that made Alora’s heart seize in her chest. 

“Shh,” she soothed, cradling the bundle to her as she halted in a darkened alley. The debris littering the dirt path served as evidence the guards had already been through this way, but one could never be too careful. All it would take was one human overhearing the infant’s waking murmurs.

“ _Mamae_...”

Alora settled one of her hands atop her daughter’s head, running her fingers through the fine red locks she’d inherited from her father. Varania clung tighter to Alora’s skirt, hiding her face in the threadbare fabric. Alora ignored the tear tracks on her daughter’s face. Varania was only four years old, and yet her mother could not comfort her, could not say that everything would be all right. She could offer prayers - silently beg to the old gods or to the Maker the masters believed in to let her family survive this ordeal – but she could not treat Varania like the child she was and pretend that everything was fine. Not now.

Varania seemed to understand, for she sniffled and fell silent and only moved again once Alora resumed her wary pace. The sound of death was a constant accompaniment, but the further they went the quieter the noises became, and that, at least, was a small relief.

They turned silently down the next backstreet, where a sudden eruption of voices had Alora pushing Varania back against the wall. The jarring movement drew a sharp, displeased cry from the baby. Blood racing, Alora rocked the infant, whispered faint nothings in his ear in hopes he might find peace by his mother’s nearness.

“Quiet, Leto,” Varania whined, looking desperately up at the rags concealing her brother. “You have to be quiet!”

Alora parted the shroud and pressed a kiss to Leto’s temple, and mercifully the simple contact appeased the infant. With another little whimper and wrinkle of the noise his eyes fell shut, and Alora was able to cover him once more and lead Varania quickly down another path before they could be happened upon.

As if the gods had truly taken ear to her prayers, the rest of their journey from the slums was unimpeded, and as the ground beneath their feet turned marshy and lush where the mixed waters of the Nocean and Colean seas flowed in small channels like threads of a spiderweb through Minrathous, Alora knew with a sudden lightness of heart that the place where she would part ways with her beloved son would guide him to salvation.

“ _Da’len,”_ she whispered, voice thick with emotion just starting to catch up with her. Now that it was time to say goodbye, she did not know where she would find the strength to actually do so. This was her baby, her only son. He was supposed to grow up under her watchful eye.

And yet, what kind of life could she possibly offer him? Even if the magisters did not demand the sacrifice of elvhen children, they would still own him. As soon as he could walk her Leto would be put to work, and he would work until he died, a slave of the Imperium.

No. Not her Leto.

Alora brushed the dark bangs from Leto’s forehead, the pads of her fingers tracing over the three full moons that had marked her son for greatness from the womb. Leto wriggled in her grasp, blinking heavy lids open to gaze up at his mother with curious green eyes. He babbled softly, one of his chubby arms reaching for a lock of Alora’s dark hair.

 _“Hamin, ma da’len. Ma da’enansal_ ,” Alora said, kneeling down by the gentle stream that would take her Leto away forever.

Varania already waited with the basket she’d been carrying, her expression uncertain. The basket was lined with blankets, which would do little for protection but had been the only comfort Alora could spare for her son. As long as the basket did not sink, there was a chance a human might stumble upon it and take pity on the innocent babe within.

If not, then death would be kinder compared to the fate that would otherwise have awaited him.

Alora placed a final kiss to the infant’s cheek as she set him in the basket, after she’d arranged the blankets around his small body. She could not watch as Varania closed the basket with a faint, “ _dareth shiral_ , brother.” She wanted the last image of her son to be of his big green eyes, gazing up at her with such unconditional love.

The stream was cool, as typical for the season, soaking through the thin layers of her clothes as she carried the basket as deep as she dared. It was sturdy, thank the gods, and remained afloat even as her fingers lifted from the thick woven edges. A gentle current carried Leto from beneath her fingertips, and it took every bit of her resolve not to reach out and take him back.

 “ _Ar laa mala revas_ , _ma da’enansal_ ,” she whispered, watching through a veil of tears as her precious little gift drifted further and further from her reach. Varania stood at the mouth of the stream, eyes on her mother, and offered prayers of her own. Alora could not guess what she wished for, what a child so young could even make of all this, but they had survived. They would continue to survive, and with the gods’ blessings Leto would have that chance as well.

 With the gods’ blessings, perhaps they would even meet again.

“ _Mala suledin nadas_.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Danarius is the creepiest creep to have ever creeped. I felt gross this entire chapter for having to write his and Fenris's (abnormal) father-son relationship. 
> 
> Also implied Dorian/Fenris this chapter, and probably next chapter as well.

“I hate it,” Fenris said, around the sob lodged uncomfortably in his throat.  “Father, please, I hate it. Please heal it.”

“Enough tears. I cannot heal what is a part of you.” 

Fenris stared at his reflection, at the hideous three dots marring his forehead. “It’s strange.” 

“It’s unique, my little one,” his father tried to explain. “It is what makes you Fenris.”

“But none of the other boys have such a birthmark! I—” Fenris stopped, bit his lip, his cheeks coloring with embarrassment. “They said it means I am a werewolf. That every third moon I will turn into a monster.”

His father released a sharp bark of laughter, then pulled Fenris into his arms. “A werewolf!” He chuckled again, cupping Fenris’s cheeks and gazing at the three-moon birthmark the dark bangs were not yet long enough to conceal. “Perhaps they are right. I have never seen a boy your age so frighteningly efficient with a sword! If you are a monster with a blade, that is nothing to be ashamed of.” 

Fenris’s mouth twitched in the beginnings of a watery smile. Being a mage, his father never seemed to take much notice of swordplay or any of the martial arts Fenris enjoyed; Fenris had been quietly worried his developing talents might go unnoticed, and it did somewhat lift his spirits to learn that was not the case.

The reassurance still did not completely ease his troubles over the birthmark, however. To Fenris, it was an imperfection – something that set him apart from his peers – and in Tevinter, imperfections of society were cast out. 

“Can you at least put a Glamour over it?” He’d seen his father work such magic before. A Glamour could not heal wounds or erase unappealing physical attributes, but it could mask them – or change them entirely, so they appeared as whatever the spell caster desired them to.

His father’s thumbs dug into his cheeks, not with enough force to be painful but at least to make Fenris pay attention. Fenris winced and rethought his words but still could not find any fault in them. Glamours were a common magic; Fenris’s father used them to conceal the greying hair at his temples.

“You listen, Fenris.” His father’s voice dropped to a solemn timbre. “You are my precious little gift, sent to me when I feared I might never know the love of a child of my own. Your mother – rest her soul – thought you were perfect just the way you were. Would you sully her memory by claiming otherwise?”

Fenris hung his head, guilt eating away at him. “No, father." 

“She loved you very much, my little one. As I love you.”

Fenris nodded, swallowing down the tears that stung the corners of his eyes at the thought that he might have dishonored his mother. It had already been four years since her death but he was sure the ache of the loss would never recede, even if he sometimes had a hard time picturing her face in his mind. He’d been barely three when she passed.

“Fenris?”

Fenris looked up slowly at the gentle prompting. His father waited expectantly, bent at the waist so they were almost eye level, so Fenris raised himself on his tiptoes and kissed him. The scratch of his father’s beard tickled his lips but he knew better than to pull away. Sometimes his father just liked holding him this way. “I love you, father.”

His father’s eyes raked over him intently. “You are my perfect boy. Don’t forget that.”

It was hard to believe, but Fenris gave the only acceptable answer. “I won’t, father.”

Fenris kissed him again and his father smiled indulgently, patting Fenris’s head before pulling away. Taking this as a cue to leave, Fenris hurried to the door of the study, but his father’s voice stopped him before he could reach up for the heavy knob.

“I trust we will never have this conversation again.”

It would be a great insult to return to his father with insecurities of his birthmark – or anything else of that nature. Flushing, Fenris nodded hastily, never wanting to shame himself or his parents b bringing up the subject again. “We won’t, father.”

“Good lad. Now run along.”

 

\- - -

 

“That’s it, Fenris.” 

Fenris grunted, ignoring the faint sting that sizzled like electric current through his body. Narrowing his eyes, he hardened his resolve and redoubled his efforts. The sensation of electricity increased and he fought the urge to cry out in pain. At twelve years old he was already a big enough disappointment for not yet having come into his magic; he didn’t need to show such weakness on top of it. 

“Again. Focus this time!”

Fenris tried. The mages made it look so simple, merely waving their hands or staves and performing incredible feats of nature or healing. Surely if others could do it, Fenris could as well.

There was a tiny spark and a _pop_ , and Fenris’s heart leapt as he thought maybe he’d done it at last. His fingertips warmed with a magical energy, and Fenris could swear he saw the smallest flicker of light – and then nothing. The song of the lyrium in his veins began to fade, and the last of Fenris’s patience with it. For years he’d been attempting to access the magic in his blood – the magic his father assured him was there.

The magic had to be there. The Danarius bloodline had been carefully cultivated for generations, for the sole purpose of breeding the finest mages to rise to the highest levels of the Magisterium. More importantly, his father could sense Fenris’s magic, and his father was never wrong about such things.

Fenris did not want to think about what it might mean if his father was wrong. The son of a magister, born without any magical talents? He’d be a taint on his family’s legacy. Better to be struck down with a terrible illness than born without magic.

With a snarl Fenris lowered his arms.

“It’s no use.” 

Across the table, his father sighed. “Now don’t say that. We just haven’t found your niche.”

“It’s obvious I don’t have a niche.” Fenris crossed his arms and glared at the candle he’d been attempting to light. Beside it, already in a pool of wax, burned the candle his father had magically lit nearly an hour ago in demonstration.

Not that Fenris needed a demonstration. Theoretically he knew how magic worked, especially such mundane tricks as this. He’d devoured nearly every book he could get his hands on in the estate library in hopes of discovering a cure for his ineptitude – it was how he’d come up with the idea of using lyrium. His father had been impressed he’d even known to suggest it, and had been supplying him steadily with potions that might enhance the ability he insisted Fenris was born with.

“Perhaps it just is not your time. Magic manifests differently in all of us,” his father said.

Fenris only continued to glare at the candle. The glimmer of the strong orange flame seemed mocking. With longsuffering calm, his father waved his hand and extinguished the light. Fenris watched as the wax bled back into the stick and solidified once more, and sighed wistfully. “But Felix has already had his magic for a year – and it’s been three years for Dorian!”

“Dorian? Dorian of Pavus?” His father hummed knowingly. “Is that what this about?”

Fenris gritted his teeth, realizing he’d trapped himself by bringing up the other boy. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Dorian of House Pavus; the were schoolmates, and sometimes Fenris even thought they were friends, but Dorian enjoyed showing off – and yes, it made him just a little bit jealous that Dorian could juggle fireballs with his eyes closed and Felix, who was younger than them _both_ , was already demonstrating a fair talent for healing minor scrapes while Fenris couldn’t even manage to light a sodding candle.

Without another word, his father came around and smacked the back of his head. Fenris yelped and rubbed the tender spot, prideful expression instantly crumbling away.

“You are heir to the House of Danarius,” his father reminded him, tone sharp with disapproval. Fenis winced and subdued the urge to curl in on himself. “You will not throw jealous fits like an infant! Perhaps this is why your magic has yet to present itself. You are unworthy of it.”

Fenris’s gut clenched, his cheeks flushing with shame. “I am sorry, father." 

His father regarded him for a moment, eyes unreadable. Then he exhaled loudly and pulled Fenris to his chest, petting his dark hair with the same hand he’d used to reprimand just moments prior. “Oh, my boy. You’re still so very young.” His hand moved down, fingers stroking the skin just under Fenris’s right eye. “I often forget. Some days you show wisdom beyond your years. Others, this foolishness.”

Fenris opened his mouth to protest, but his father’s thumb caught his bottom lip, dragging it gently downwards. The words died in Fenris’s throat.

“Regardless, I still believe you possess a gift. It’s why you’re here. There’s a connection to the Fade, however faint, and we’ll find a way to draw it out no matter how long it takes.”

Fenris grabbed his father’s wrist, imploring. “But what if we can’t?” What if there was no gift – what if he was nothing?

“Do not fret, my little wolf.” His father smiled thinly. “We’ve not yet exhausted all our options. Hadriana!”

At the summons, a dark-haired girl stepped out from the shadows of the room, eyes glimmering with amusement as she passed Fenris and came to stand at his father’s side. A promising mage of sixteen, Hadriana had been part of the household for as long as Fenris could remember, apprenticed to his father at a young age. She was clever and ambitious, and despite talks of a future betrothal it was clear to Fenris she harbored not the slightest affection for her mentor’s son. Of course, she played nice, and not a soul besides Fenris would ever believe she thought anything but the world of him, but behind closed doors she reserved a particularly disgusted sneer just for him – as if he were mud under her dainty boots.

“My dear, I would like you to continue to aid Fenris in his research. Do not be afraid to seek out... alternative methods.”

“Yes, master.” Hadriana curtsied to him and Fenris’s father smiled in approval.

The last thing Fenris wanted was to work alone with Hadriana, but he’d let his father down enough for one afternoon so he knew better than to argue or ask his father to reconsider. With a final, affectionate pat to Fenris’s cheek, his father strode from the chamber. The sound of the heavy mahogany door closing behind him echoed ominously off of the stone walls.

A young elven slave scurried over to clean up the candles and empty vials on the desk, and Fenris watched her, thinking all the while how easy it must have been to be a slave. There were no expectations of them; no sense of greatness to live up to. They were simply given orders and obeyed without question. Only the foolish ones, who did not realize how lucky they were to live such a stress-free life, rebelled.

When the slave left, Hadriana rounded on Fenris. “I can’t believe I have to waste my time with this again.”

Ignoring the accusation in her tone, Fenris turned to the wall of books behind the desk. He’d been through all these books already, but perhaps he’d missed something? “It won’t be a waste of time if we find something.” 

Hadriana scoffed. “There is nothing to find. Master Danarius clings to hope because he does not want to admit his precious _little wolf_ isn’t so special after all.” 

Fenris glared at the floor. It was one thing to have his own suspicions, but to hear Hadriana voice his fears aloud set his blood boiling. “You don’t know that.”

“But I do. And deep down, so do you. That’s why it makes you so angry. You _know_ you’re a failure.”

There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t just sound like an immature denial of the truth, so Fenris held his tongue. Hadriana’s opinion of him should not matter so much; for whatever reason (Fenris expected it was more than his lack of magical ability) she could not stand him and thought he was beneath her, so of course she would take any opportunity to insult him. To let her words get under his skin would be handing her victory, and so Fenris tried his best to let them roll from his shoulders. 

He would prove her wrong. He would prove wrong anyone who doubted him.

“Father mentioned alternative methods,” he said, finally looking at Hadriana again. “Tell me about them.”

 

\- - -

 

“Come now, you call that a flèche? You shame the house of Danarius with your terrible footing!”

The words were spoken in jest, a mere incitement to draw Fenris from his shell, but Fenris hated the thought of being inferior in any way. Even more he detested the idea that he might not be worthy of his name of the man who’d raised him. Squaring his shoulders, Fenris feinted to the right and dodged Dorian’s net attack with ease. An echoing clang resounded through the courtyard as their swords clashed together. With an extra bit of weight behind the maneuver, Fenris was able to throw his opponent off balance, and in quick succession claim victory with the press of his épée to Dorian’s throat.

Fenris followed the bob of Dorian’s Adam’s apple as the taller boy swallowed, all the while aware of Dorian’s unblinking gaze on him as well.

After a long moment in which they stared each other down, Dorian raised his hands in defeat, submissively lowering the tip of his own épée. “It appears you’ve bested me again. What I deserve, I suppose, for thinking I might finally have the upper hand.”

Fenris withdrew his blade, backing up several paces and looking Dorian over skeptically. “And what gave you that idea?” Fenris’s talents may have been few, but he was never more confident than with a sword in his hands.

“Is it not obvious?” Dorian laughed good-naturedly and closed the distance Fenris had put between them with a few brisk strides. He made a show of measuring the few inches that separated them thanks to his most recent growth spurt.

Fenris huffed, eyebrows knitting together in displeasure. He swatted Dorian’s hand away. Dorian had always been taller than him – but he was older so it was to be expected. That did not mean Fenris liked it. He felt insignificant enough compared to the heir of House Pavus as it was. “I’ll catch up.” The Danarius men were not built like tanks, but they were tall, and at the very least with the way Fenris trained he was sure he could build the muscle mass to one day cut an intimidating figure. 

“I certainly hope not. I’d have no chance at all if you outclassed _and_ outgrew me!”

“Indeed. All you’d have in your favor would be your pretty face.”

Dorian smirked and waggled his eyebrows. “Let’s not forget my charming wit.”

Fenris rolled his eyes. “Who says it’s charming?”

They made their way out of the courtyard, a breeze cooling the sweat on their sun-drenched skin. Dorian bumped his hip against Fenris’s as he passed, his slightly larger hand trailing flirtatiously over the small of Fenris's back, and for the brief instant Fenris managed to catch his eye he could swear there was an invitation, a beckoning glimmer for... something.

Fenris blushed and shook his head, and just like that the spell was broken. Dorian's usual lazy swagger carried him a bit ahead of Fenris, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Cautiously, Fenris peeked over his shoulder to ascertain they were alone. Not that they'd done anything that could be gossiped about, but - well, rumors had started from far less than a lingering glance. Thankfully they appeared the only two of any credibility within eyesight.

“I’m sorry, did I make you uncomfortable?” Dorian had stopped walking, and was looking at Fenris with uncharacteristic self-consciousness.

“No,” Fenris said, too quickly. “I just...” He just wasn't sure what Dorian had been insinuating - if he'd been suggesting anything at all.

Dorian pursed his lips, silent for a moment. Then, “I understand.” 

 _No_ , Fenris wanted to answer immediately; _no you don't_. How could Dorian understand what Fenris himself could barely put words to? His heart pounded heavily in his chest, and so loudly he was sure the other boy would be able to hear it.

He belatedly realized the mistake in his silence when Dorian withdrew several steps. “Dorian—”

“I understand,” Dorian repeated. His voice was tight, and expression closed-off. “I'd thought... Well, never mind what I'd thought. Let us speak nothing more of it. I’m afraid I must be going now.”

Fenris’s mind reeled as he rushed to figure out how to repair the damage he’d caused. What had Dorian thought? What was the meaning behind those looks, the brief touches. Was it mere flirtation, another aspect of the personality Fenris did indeed find exceptionally charming? And why now was Dorian running from him, closing off his expression and shutting Fenris out as if he were a mere acquaintance and not someone he'd known and studied and played with practically all his life. “Let me walk with you,” Fenris offered, desperate for them not to part ways under such a misunderstanding.

“There is really no need for that,” Dorian brusquely declined, returning his épée to the proper rack. “I need to stop by the Academy anyways, and as you known non-magi are not allowed.”

Fenris swallowed thickly, setting his épée on the rack beside his friend’s. Unlike the comment made while they were fencing, these words were barbed, and the reminder that they were not equals despite both being sons of magisters efficiently shut Fenris up.

A slave appeared with towels and a bottle of sandalwood oil for their skin. They did not speak as they changed out of their training gear, not even when the time came to part ways. When Dorian left, it was with only a vaguely disappointed look in Fenris’s direction.

 

\- - -

 

“Absolutely not.”

“But father... Hadriana and I researched the ritual thoroughly. With the lyrium injected directly into the veins, rather than simply ingested, it should provide exactly the boost my magic needs.” 

His father glared from across the desk and Fenris did his best not to shrink under the hard look. After all these years no one intimidated him quite like the man, but Fenris could not back down. He _needed_ to prove there was magic in his blood.

“And if not? You could become an addict –it could _kill_ you.”

“I know, and I am prepared—”

“Well I am not prepared!”

Fenris’s eyes widened at the unexpected outburst. He stayed rooted in place as his father came around the desk to stand before him, and only silently bowed his neck to rest his forehead on his father’s shoulder when he was taken into his arms. The embrace was not comforting, as it might have been when Fenris was a young child. Rather, it felt possessive – caging. Or maybe it was just Fenris’s anger.

“You are my boy, Fenris. _Mine_. I will not lose you. Not to lyrium, not to magic, not to anything.”

“You will not lose me,” Fenris promised. “Please, let’s just _try_.”

His father shook his head. “I have given my answer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think even an acid bath would take the Danarius ickiness I feel away. 
> 
> **chapter edited 3/7/15; changes made specifically to the Dorian & Fenris scene.**


	3. Chapter 3

Fenris knew the only thing currently saving him from a future as a common _Soporati_ merchant was the Danarius name. Without his father, he was nothing – indeed he heard the rumors passed back and forth among the upper rungs of society – and so he had twice as much to prove as his magically inclined peers. He would never have a voice in Tevinter politics, but if he proved intelligent enough perhaps one day he could manage the Danarius accounts and estates.

That meant any free time he had should be spent studying, not hiding away in the bowels of the estate pouring over Hadriana’s notes for a ritual his father had expressly forbidden.

“I don’t blame him,” Dorian had said when Fenris made the mistake of complaining to him about his father. Ever since their misunderstanding in the courtyard things had been rather tense between them. Dorian still came over, but his visits were shorter, and at all times he seemed conscious of keeping a certain amount of space between them. Fenris battered down the resulting sting of disappointment that caused; their relationship was the least of his concerns. “Blood magic is a vile thing; certainly not worth the risk.”

Fenris had been quick to challenge his opinion. “Easy for you to say. You reap the benefits of being born with magic. You don’t know what it’s like, how it feels to have all your peers look down on you.”

“They don’t look down on you.”

“Don’t lie. I know what they say about me.”

“Mere rumors—” 

“You told me those rumors!” 

Knowing he’d gain no support from the Pavus heir, Fenris had dropped the subject after that. But even after Dorian warned him to just let it go, forget the ritual and focus on what he could do to improve his studies (with private tutors, because Fenris would rather die than bear the shame of attending school with the rest of the _Soporati_ youth, even those of wealthier Minrathous families) Fenris could not. Thoughts of his opposing potential futures consumed him, until he found himself at the point where he would make any sacrifice and not mind being indebted to Hadriana for her assistance.

She’d made quite a few alterations to her notes since the time she’d first come to him with the idea of injecting lyrium straight into his blood, and while he did not trust her, he did believe in her abilities. His father would not apprentice the inept, and Fenris bore witness to Hadriana showcasing her gifts enough to know without a doubt she was powerful.

Currently the young woman sat opposite of Fenris, having long since ceased her complaining about the cellar's cramped darkness. A crisp piece of parchment rested in her lap, which she’d poured over the past half hour, marking with a peculiar swirling design that to Fenris’s unknowing eye seemed mere doodling. The way Hadriana’s brow furrowed in concentration as she worked, the barest hint of her tongue peeking out the corner of her mouth, kept him from accusing her of wasting time.

“What are those?” he couldn’t help ask, curiosity piqued.

Surprisingly, Hadriana did not sound the least bit condescending when she answered. “Spirit lines.” At Fenris’s blank look, she sighed, a bit of arrogance surfacing as she elaborated, explaining how certain points of the body held stronger connections to the Fade. “Many of the lines cross over veins. They will be marked upon your skin, creating an opening for the lyrium we inject. In theory, we will be drawing a bit of the Fade into your body, and the lyrium will enhance its power.”

“And that will give me magic?”

Hadriana set her paper aside and stretched her arms over her head. “Hypothetically. None of this has ever been tested before. Until we actually try, we have no way of knowing.” Her narrow eyes found his, pinned him with an uncomfortable glare. “At this rate, can you really afford not to try?”

Fenris swallowed, bowing his head. She was right. He had no other options. Despite the lull in self-confidence over the years, a small part of him still clung to the hope that he would discover his magic and turn his fortunes around – be able to go to the Circle with Dorian and the other mages and build an honorable reputation for himself. The truth, however, was that unless he attempted Hadriana’s plan, he would amount to nothing.

Unless they tried this – and unless it worked – he would never be anything but a disappointment.

Reading the resignation in his expression, Hadriana set to work gathering her notes. “Give me the rest of the week to make preparations. It will require a sacrifice – a slave, someone elderly or invalid that Danarius won’t notice.”

 _It will be worth it,_ Fenris told himself, when the blood threatened to drain from his face at the mere idea. He’d heard about slaves being sacrificed for blood magic rituals; it was common knowledge in the Imperium, even if publicly magister claimed to oppose such practices, and many slaves were even groomed for such a task – Bleeders. Hearing and witnessing were two entirely different things, however, especially when Fenris would bear witness to a sacrifice made on his command.

_It will be worth it._

_\- - -_

It all happened in a blur. One second Fenris was strapped to the table listening to Hadriana chant, biting down on his lip to distract himself from the pain of the knife slicing down his neck, and the next he was waking up in a cloud of acrid green smoke. He had a hard time making up or down of the unwelcoming surroundings; the ground on which he stood could very well have been a ceiling or wall considering the jagged rocks growing out from all angles.

The second he took step forward, gravity rushed back on him, making him stumble and fall sideways. Small, sharp rocks bit into the palms of his hands as he attempted to catch himself. 

“Oh my. Look who it is," a sultry female voice sounded from nowhere. The fog twisted and danced as someone approached. "I was wondering when I’d get to meet you.”

Fenris squinted through the hazy surroundings, struggling to gain his bearings and make sense of the strange, scantily clad woman who appeared before him. He’d never seen her on the estate before – but then, they weren’t in the estate anymore; even if Fenris knew nothing else, he was at least aware of that. His limbs ached with a dull, niggling pain, but for the moment his curiosity allowed him to overlook it.

“Who are you?”

Her full lips curved into a sensual pout, and she curled a long strand of black hair around her finger. “All these years and Danarius has not mentioned me? How hurtful.” She laughed and pinned her golden eyes on Fenris. “I suppose it does not matter. All that matters, my dear, is who you want me to be.”

“That… does not makes sense,” Fenris said, voice trailing off as before his eyes the woman changed, skin darkening and hair receding into a familiar stylish cut. In a matter of seconds Dorian’s mirthful dark eyes stared back at him in place of the woman’s gold. Fenris sucked in a deep breath, heart skipping a beat as it was prone to do in Dorian’s presence. “How...?”

“We’re in the Fade, _amatus_.” Even the voice was Dorian’s, rich and seductive. He stepped closer, bringing a hand to Fenris’s cheek and drawing their faces together. “Anything is possible.”

Fenris blinked, eyelids suddenly very heavy. _The Fade... That’s right. The ritual..._ _Hadriana..._

Hadriana said there was a chance of his mind getting pulled into the Fade while his physical body underwent the procedure – something to do with the spirit lines that sharp little knife was marking onto his skin – similar to how some mages entered the Fade in their dreams. So this was all in his head; it wasn’t real.

“It’s true,” the creature wearing Dorian’s face confirmed. “We’re in your mind. But why should that make it not real?”

Fenris inhaled the scent of sandalwood that seemed to always come from Dorian. How incredible that this creature could replicate even that small detail – and how frightening. If he stayed where he was there was a severe chance of losing himself. Dorian’s presence had that effect, and even though he knew this was not Dorian...

Fenris pointedly stepped back, putting a safe amount of distance between himself and the creature. “Are you a demon?”

Not-Dorian tilted his head and brought a finger to his chin contemplatively – a gesture Fenris had seen the real Dorian make many times in the past. “Hm, this isn’t it, is it? You wish to be his equal, and there is clearly lust, but there are other desires. Greater desires.”

The figure shifted again, shrinking, briefly adopting Hadriana’s sharp features and then twisting again, dark hair morphing to luscious curls and ears elongating.

“An elf?” Fenris wrinkled his nose as he took in the ragged clothes and weathered skin. “A slave.”

“Is that all you see, Leto?” 

No, it wasn’t; but the familiarity of the elf’s features – large, mossy green eyes, pouty lips and straight nose – made Fenris distinctly uncomfortable, a did the strange word (name?) she referred to him by, so he chose not to acknowledge them.

For a quick, strange moment, it seemed the elf might cry. Even stranger was Fenris’s urge to pull her into his arms and comfort her. “How sad,” she lamented. 

“Why am I here?” Fenris snapped. Being the only son of a powerful magister meant he was not accustomed to waiting for others to follow his demands.

The demon clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Temper, temper… I must remind Danarius to keep a leash on his pet.” She regarded him for a moment before that seductive smile returned to her lips. It looked wrong on the maternal elven face. “You feel that way sometimes, do you not? Collared. Chained by the overbearing protectiveness. Sometimes you look at him and hate him for it.”

Guilt rose up like bile in the back of his throat, for he could not deny it. Danarius’s concern stifled him, and there were many times he’d wished his father would not care so much. “Father loves me,” he said, softly. “He doesn’t want me to get hurt, but--”

“Oh no, dear boy. He does not want you _lost_.”

Fenris scrunched his brows. “Is there a difference,” he wondered, flushing when the woman outright laughed in response.

“It’s amusing how little you know.”

Clenching his fists at his sides, Fenris fixed the demon with his most baleful glare. “Do not mock me.”

The demon feigned shock, bringing a dainty hand to her mouth and everything. “I would not dare. You are my charge, after all.”

Her features slowly melted back into the original state which she’d appeared to him: pearlescent skin, long black hair and golden eyes, voluptuous curves barely concealed by strips of fine crimson silk.

“My name is Muna,” she told him, performing a flourishing little curtsey. “Danarius contracted me years ago for the single purpose of protecting you, should you ever attempt to enter this place.” She let the words settle before continuing. “The second you crossed into the Fade, I had no choice but to inform him of your presence. However... Now that have I completed my end of the bargain, I am free again. And you, little wolf,” she whispered, bringing a hand to his forehead to touch the three moons, “I would be very interested in aligning with.”

Fenris’s mind reeled, overloaded with information. His father was bound to a demon? Was this the only, or were there more? And speaking of his father – if he knew Fenris had entered the Fade, would he follow him here, bring him back? Would Fenris be punished? After all these years the thought of being reprimanded still had Fenris shaking like a small child. Danarius loved him, called him precious, but he still was not lenient when it came to reprimanding his son.

“I did not come here to make a deal with a demon,” Fenris argued, but his voice sounded weak even to his own ears.

Muna did not look convinced either. “You want magic. _Desperately_. To the point you’re letting a woman you don’t trust wield a knife to your flesh while you are both ignorant to the true nature of this ritual.”

They were wrong? What was this doing to him, then, if it would not grant him his magic? 

“There are easier ways. Certainly more dependable ways.” The demon cupped his cheek. “Let me help you.”

Fenris hated to admit how strong a part of him wanted to accept. Excitement buzzed in his veins, mingling with the pain he could steadily feel growing in his limbs, weighing them down, because this was it – _this_ was the solution. It did not come about in a way he expected, but did that really matter? If Muna could help him... 

“Step away, Muna.”

All desire that had been flooding through Fenris instantly turned cold at his father’s familiar voice. Danarius strode forward from seemingly nowhere, and Fenris shrunk in on himself as he came to stand beside him. He chanced a peek up at him, but his father paid him no mind, his steely eyes fixed on he demon. 

“Pleased though I am that you fulfilled your promise to me, I believe, as you said, our contract has concluded, and you have outlived your usefulness to me,” Danarius said simply, a slow smile curling his lips when Muna’s eyes widened in horror.

“You cannot,” she said, retreating several steps and shaking her head in denial. “I had every right to find another host, Danarius; I am not bound to you.”

“And yet you would dare to bind my Fenris.” Danarius’s staff manifested in front of him, and he took it, his stance subtly changing in preparation for a fight. Fenris followed suit, though he knew there was very little he could do in this situation, especially with the mounting soreness of his body. Now that his father was here, the haziness of the Fade had begun to lift from his mind. 

Without warning, Danarius loosed a bolt of lightening from his staff. Muna barely managed to dodge it, but not the rebound of her counterattack that a clever barrier Danarius constructed managed to hurtle back at her. Another blast of lightening knocked her into a jagged wall, the paralyzing spell that followed ensuring she could not move as Danarius closed the distance between them to press the blade of his staff to her chest.

“Too easy,” Danarius sneered, looking over the demon with a contempt she returned. “It would be shameful to kill an opponent who barely defended herself. Swear to me you will never again offer a contract to Fenris, and I will spare your pathetic life.”

Muna smirked, closing her eyes. “You’re a fool, Danarius, and you’ll lose him whether I contract him or not. He’s marked. He’s been marked since the day he was born, and now he’s gone and marked himself up even more. He’s set his own path, and I already see where it leads—”

Fenris did not get to hear what else she might have said, for his father struck her down with fire this time. Muna’s shrill shrieks echoed in his ears even after Danarius gripped his hand and sent them plunging back into the real world. Colors and shapes swirled around them at a dizzying speed. Fenris clung to his father’s hand, stomach lurching, and then it was not Muna’s voice anymore but his own screams tearing from his throat, echoing maddeningly off the walls.

His body strained against its bindings, back arching improbably off the table and nose stinging with the tangy scent of blood. The table was slippery, and the ropes that held his wrists and feet were wet with red. In his mouth, too, he could taste copper, and every muscle cried out in agony. 

Briefly, Danarius crossed into his line of vision and another cry reached his ringing ears – Hadriana? But that was all he knew before the pain eroded everything else, and his world turned to blackness.

\- - -

The next few days passed at a torturously slow pace. The pain from the knife wounds swirling his body bordered on excruciating during his waking hours and chased him even into his dreams. Magic offered no solace – rather, it seemed to produce the opposite effect, with even the gentlest of healing spells causing Fenris to writhe and gargle incoherently on his bed.

Nearly week of this – of trying and failing to find a spell that could work, and ultimately resigning to the idea of the body healing naturally – and Danarius called in the best healers Minrathous had to offer, to mix up sweet herby potions and foul-smelling balms that might ease Fenris’s suffering. Their tireless efforts, too, proved largely inefficient. The damage was too great, they said, or just unlike anything they’d previously encountered. They tried, but their lack of knowledge left them ultimately helpless in their task.

 “Get out!” Danarius snarled to a mousy-looking woman after her timid suggestion of bloodletting. The practice was ancient but not completely unheard of in the modern age. Typically it was brought up as a last resort. 

“B-but, my lord Magister—” The woman cut off with a yelp, ducking to avoid the jar Danarius threw at her head. The clay smashed as it connected with the wall, filling the room with the scent of crushed Elfroot. With a last apologetic look in Fenris’s direction the healer scurried from the room.

Fenris lolled his head to the side, not wanting to see what kind of expression his father wore right now and guessing it would only be disappointment. That seemed the only thing his father capable of expressing lately. Well, anger too, but due to Fenris’s injuries he’d controlled himself from exhibiting his disapproval physically.

“I hope you are satisfied. Stupid boy.”

Fenris closed his eyes. “Yes, father,” he managed through gritted teeth, the only acceptable response. He knew he was stupid for attempting a ritual he knew so little about – for trusting his father’s apprentice, just barely an adult herself, to know what she was doing.

He regretted dragging her into this. While they had never gotten along – Hadriana’s dislike for him something Fenris still did not understand – she had agreed to help him, and her assistance had seen her stripped of title and standing and banished from the estate. Fenris hadn’t the faintest idea where she was now, how she was surviving, but he was not naïve enough to believe she could have any semblance of respectable life after the dishonor. 

Hearing Danarius’s labored sigh, Fenris chanced a peek back at him. His father had crossed over to the bedside and was staring down at him now with an irritated mixture of remorse and pity. As if Fenris were some poor animal he wished he could put out of its misery.

Fenris’s toes curled in self-disgust. The tops of his feet throbbed in protest.

“The wounds are shallow,” his father explained, tone clinical as he reached out and began unwinding the bandages on Fenris’s right arm. Several times a day they needed redressing, typically after every meal. “You are lucky I stopped this when I did, but it is still going to be an uncomfortable recovery, I’m afraid, and there will be scars.” 

No less than he deserved, Fenris supposed. Still, how ironic he’d gone his whole life detesting the birthmarks on his forehead because they made him different, and now he’d gone and marked his entire body up in ways that could not simply be hidden by growing out his hair. Clothes would conceal his chest and limbs, but his chin, his neck, hands... Everyone would know he was a disgrace with one look at him. A monster, unworthy of his family’s name.

The cool air filtering through the open window drew a sharp his from Fenris’s lips as it assaulted the bared wounds. Shallow cuts, angry and red, patterned his body in a design similar to the spirit lines Hadriana had drawn on her parchment that evening in the cellar.

Fenris wished he fully understood their purpose, but as with most things of magical persuasion it remained beyond him, and he supposed it no longer mattered. Whatever the nature of the ritual had been, now it was only a waste of time – a worthless sacrifice.

A brief pang of regret for the two souls lost to the endeavor seeped into Fenris – or it may have been the numbing quality of the balm Danarius worked into his forearm.  They’d been slaves – infirm at that, slotted for either a swift end to their lives or resale at whatever meager price a trader might offer in exchange for them – but Fenris still didn’t feel right about it. At least if the ritual had been a success their deaths would have had purpose.

Silence reigned as Danarius dressed his wounds, mummifying Fenris in clean bandagers and making him feel truly like some dead thing by the pointed avoidance of speech or even eye contact. Detached, as if Fenris were merely another slave being looked over, judged for worth, not Danarius’s only son.

Fenris swallowed against the sick churning in his stomach, closed his eyes and willed himself to fall asleep. The more he slept the faster days passed, and the sooner a possibility of things returning to normal.

He turned his head to the side as much as the bandages allowed and grunted at a bizarre sensation at his ear – as if he were bending it with how he lay on the pillow. But his ears were not big...

Danarius reached up and touched the spot. An intense flare of pain an the ache subsided. Fenris gasped, eyes flying open. His father looked particularly distressed.

“W-what?” Fenris asked, seized by the fear of having done yet another thing wrong. What could warrant such an expression? What could possibly be worse than what Fenris had already done to himself?

Danarius shook his head quickly – too quickly – attempting to soften his features into parental concern. His eyes remained tight at the corners, mouth more of a grimace than a smile. “Do not worry yourself, my boy. You will be fine.”

The words sounded more a bid to convince himself than Fenris. They didn’t comfort in the slightest, but even though Fenris knew his father was hiding something he was too exhausted to put forth an argument and realized he’d be lucky if his father told him the truth anyways. Fenris had grown over the years, was almost an adult in the eyes of society, but to Danarius still saw him as little boy – to the point where Fenris had to wonder if Danarius’s obstinate refusals to use a Glamour on him, to allow Fenris to go through with Hadriana’s ritual, to contract a _demon_ to keep tabs on him were meant not to protect him but to keep him an oblivious child forever.

Muna's voice echoed in his mind: ' _he does not want you_ lost.'

Which only begged the question: what did Danarius fear he might lose Fenris _to_? 

What was Danarius hiding? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this chapter was a pain. xp I'm so glad to be done with it.

**Author's Note:**

> Elvish to English Translations:  
> (please correct if anything is mis-translated!)
> 
> Da’len... Hamin, ma da’len. Ma da’enansal – Little child... Rest, my little child. My little gift.  
> Enansal – gift/blessing  
> Dareth shiral – be safe/safe journey  
> Ar laa mala revas – you are now free  
> Mala suledin nadas – now you must endure  
> Mamae - mother
> 
>  
> 
> Fellow Dragon Age trash? Cry with me about it: actual-pixie.tumblr.com


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